A meaty hand thudded down on the table.

“There’s people who ain’t too happy with you.”

Daine looked up into a forest of ginger hair. In the middle of her talk with Cenwyn, one of Trellec’s retainers had finally found his courage to upgrade “conspicuous lurking” into “active intimidation.” Although, as he was not the biggest of them, nor by the smell of his breath the most sober, his aggressive approach merely suggested an attempt to test the water.

“I imagine so. Usually means I’ve done the right thing. But we’ve got that in common, at least.” If he had an expected response in mind, that was not it. Through the tangle of hair, she watched a frown form. “Whoever encouraged a man of your colouring to serve in red and gold seemed determined to expose you to ridicule.”

The big man tried to wrest the conversation back toward the script he had prepared with a visible effort. “You’d get back on the Road right now if you knew what’s good for you.” He then took a course of action which, had he been less in his cups, he might have recognised as a touch unwise. Still leaning on the table, he reached out and poked Daine in the shoulder.

With a single fluid movement, she drew a knife and slammed it into the middle of his hand, pinning it to the wood. With her other hand, she grabbed a handful of his beard and brought his head down with a crunch into the corner of the table. The big man’s eyes rolled up into his head as he sank to the floor, and Daine yanked the knife free.

In the silence that followed, one of the man’s fellows took a hesitant step forward before catching her eye, pausing, and retreating with palms raised in the universal signal for “I have reconsidered the advisability of my actions and would like you not to hurt me.”

Daine looked over at Cenwyn and reflected on his words. “I agree with you, Master Tailor, ten years is too long.” She wiped the blade on the back of the prostrate man, replaced it in her sheath and stood tall. “No matter how many stories they hear about us, there’s folk who just can’t keep it in their heads between Tours. I’m a Knight of the Road, and you all” — she raised her voice, powerful with , to carry across the room — “you all need to remember what that means. Me, and those like me, make certain there’s a reckoning. We might not be there to stop it, but we will always give answer for it. You do not get to tell us what we should care about. Not now. Not ever.” She stood and brushed down her rumpled clothes. Any effect of the ale was long gone —purged by the activation of her Skill—and that irritated her more than the behaviour of Trellec’s man. “I was here ten years ago and will be here in another ten. Some of you may think there’s all sorts of deeds that can be achieved in that time. That it is worth the risk. But while you’re about it, remember this promise: I will see you soon.”

She bent low to whisper in Cenwyn’s ear. “I’ll think on what you said, Master Tailor, but hear me when I say judgement is never ‘too little.’ Not for those who deserve it. It’s not much, but it is what the Goddess promises us all.” Then, turning back to Trellec’s men, she opened her arms wide. “Any of you still think this is a good idea?”

They stared at her dumbly, then down at the man sobbing at her feet, as did the rest of the tavern.

“I’m glad. Now, I’m going to step outside for a moment and give anyone waiting out there the same chance I give you now. Live another day. Collect your friend and run back to Lord Trellec. Tell him he best mind his manners the next time I come through. I’ll be checking. And that man” — she indicated Cenwyn, whose eyes widened in dismay as everyone turned to regard him — “better be the healthiest, happiest Tailor in town when I’m here again. He so much as pricks a finger, someone needs to be there to kiss it better.” She winked at him, and the crowd parted around her.

The Men-at-Arms hesitated for a few moments. Within them warred two different fears — that of being the recipient of Daine’s displeasure against the certainty of what awaited them back at the Keep should they fail their mission. Eventually, in grim, silent agreement, they all filed out after her.

As Daine’s eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, she sensed the opening of the tavern door behind her: Trellec’s men hovering at the threshold. Either those men were blindingly stupid, or they were more afraid of Trellec than they were of her, which was a new experience. She favoured brief moments of instructive violence, as they often forestalled this sort of situation. That this one had not, suggested that maybe there was more to what Cenwyn had said about Drunnoc Trellec than she thought. That would need considering.

A sudden hiss from her left jerked her back to the moment. She turned and caught the downward swing of a long knife in the palm of her hand, wincing as it cut to the bone. With a sharp tug, Daine disarmed the attacker and had a moment to appreciate their startled expression before she struck them, hard, across the face with the pommel. The figure — a small woman in black — sailed back into the darkness, neck broken even before she hit the alley wall and slid into a crumpled heap.

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Daine dropped the long knife just before the wound healed around the blade. That had happened several times before, and, as well as looking ridiculous, it hurt twice as much to pull it free. Blades were infinitely preferable to arrows, though: she absolutely could not be doing with Archers.

As the cut closed and she felt the bones knit back together, two strong arms closed around her and began to squeeze. It was a worthy attempt to pin her arms to her sides and expose her to a third man who was approaching quickly from behind with a dagger. It was clearly a tactic that had worked for this pair before — enhanced by a talent for — and, against a different opponent, would have doubtless found success again. However, what Daine lacked in sociability, she more than made up for in brute Strength.

With ease, she broke the bear hug before reaching over her shoulder to drag the startled man over her back. His feet hit the ground and he stood, somewhat surprised at this turn of events, in front of her. In that position, he provided an effective, if reluctant and entirely temporary, shield for the subsequent knife attack. When she felt the impaled man sag, she shoved him firmly in the back. He flew away, taking his unfortunate ex-partner with him. The two of them hit the same spot on the wall as the first assassin and joined her in an unmoving pile on the ground.

With raised eyebrows, Daine turned to regard those still hovering around the tavern door. They all avoided meeting her eyes. Then a shout from the alley caught her attention. She turned just as a ball of fire flew from the darkness to strike her in the chest. In quick succession, three more fireballs followed, each hitting Daine, who grunted in pain at each impact. However, as soon as they struck the Knight, the flames vanished in wisps of smoke. From the expletives she heard, rapid dissipation was not an anticipated effect from the spellcaster.

There was a brief pause, and then a white-hot tide of flame rolled toward Daine, engulfing her, and causing the cobbles beneath her feet to glow.

A young red-haired girl stalked from the shadows, fire roiling from her hands. She shrieked words of power with each step, pulling in every source of heat from the surrounding area: every hearth in the village went cold, every torch, every candle went dark, and frost even started to form on the outside of buildings.

Those watching from the tavern murmured their surprise. What the Fire Mage was attempting was a significant summoning, quite beyond anything witnessed in the village for many a year. Thus, in the face of such a show of pyromantic strength, the Knight’s indifference to the conflagration was somewhat comical. As if on an evening’s stroll, she slowly advanced toward the woman, stooping to pick up the discarded long knife, flames trailing above and behind her as if she were a meteor.

There were myths of demons used to elicit screams of joyful terror from children on certain nights of the year. The joy came from the knowledge that such things did not exist, and the terror grew from fear that, perhaps one day, they just might. No one who watched Daine’s slow, fiery walk across the courtyard that night would ever again question the existence of such monsters.

The Lady Darkhelm paused in front of her assailant. The Fire Mage’s blue eyes widened with panic, and she poured more and more of her soul into the spell, as if she could change her rapidly shortening future by will alone.

With the spending of her life force, the Mage’s skin lost its lustre as if she were ageing thirty years in barely a moment. Her back bent inwards, causing her to stagger, and she stooped forward. Still, she tried, tried unto the last, to make that which would not burn catch fire.

Daine waited patiently, politely, until the old woman — for that was what now stood in front of her — ceased her casting and hunched over, gasping for breath, staring at her hands in awful wonder.

There were several moments of silence as the horror of the Mage’s physical transformation settled on the observers. Then Daine spoke in a quiet, almost gentle, voice.

Somehow, those softly delivered words carried to everyone watching. Faces could be seen crowded at every window on the street. The tavern had emptied itself around Trellec’s men, Cenwyn at the forefront. It was as if every member of the village had come to witness this Mage’s final moment.

“There’s a tale in the South of the Cult of Tara. You may have heard of them. A wind cult, as it happens, but the same principle serves here, I think. They thought they could live wholly outside of judgement. That their abilities meant no one would ever be able to call them to account. They did appalling things with the power the gods had granted them. You would not think the ability to control air would easily lend itself to torture, to destruction, to slaughter. You would be wrong. They killed thousands for the cause of ambition with barely a thought. I tell you now what I told them. Those of us granted gifts have a choice. You have chosen poorly.”

Daine swung the long knife experimentally, assessing its heft and weight. “I should say, that look you have on your face right now, they had it too. Right at the end. I tell you this because, since my Tour through there, when the people of Darnak wish to express bemused surprise, they’ll say: ‘Well, I’ll be a Priest of Tara.’ Bemused, albeit short-lived, surprise.”

Daine beheaded the woman with a swish of the borrowed blade.

She turned to face the crowd, seeking out Cenwyn. “Tell me, Master Tailor, do you think they will remember me the next time I come through?”